In The Wilderness
by Funky In Fishnet
Summary: Each team leader is instructed by a faceless voice on tape. The man who, for a time, is IMF.


_**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything._

 _ **Author Note:** Written because I wanted to write a Mission: Impossible story and my husband said 'why don''t you write about the voice who gives them their missions?' So I did._

* * *

 **IN THE WILDERNESS**

"Good morning, sir."

"Good morning, Cynthia. Any news?"

"Lattimer's team has passed the border, sir."

"Good. Keep me informed."

It wasn't a terribly sociable job but nobody joined the IMF for its social possibilities. He hung up his jacket and lit a cigarette before looking through the envelopes, postcards, and tapes that had accumulated on his desk. The first mail drop of the day. Once upon a time, he'd been one of the agents sending in such reports. How time flew.

His shoulder only ached on especially cold days. It hadn't been the same since that mission in Kiev. Harry hadn't returned with the rest of them.

Cracking the window, he thanked Cynthia when she brought him in a cup of coffee – black with two sugars. It felt like that sort of day and she'd known it before he'd even realized. He listened to several tapes before putting them aside for Cynthia to transcribe later. Now onto the letters, telegrams, and postcards.

Some had already been decoded by the cypher department, but some were for his eyes only. He opened the envelopes with a small blade that was incongruous enough to pass for a letter-opener. He'd used it to hack his way out of more than one regrettable situation. He never took any pleasure in the violence of the job; it was always merely a tool, like the codes, technology, and rubber masks.

All mail was screened before it made its way into any IMF office. On a couple of notable occasion, envelopes had been found to be coated in corrosive substances or contained powders that should never be inhaled. The IMF worked behind a corporate guise but there were sometimes those clever or desperate enough to root out the IMF and attempt all manner of invasions, revenge or much much worse.

He tapped his cigarette against an unobtrusive ashtray. There was a hidden microphone imbedded in it, for when people entered his office, to talk to him or to snoop in his absence. There were gas pipe networks hidden in the walls ready to subdue intruders, blackout blinds and cameras and a great deal that wasn't recorded on any official paperwork, just in case. All of IMF's offices were outfitted identically. It never paid to be underprepared.

He hummed a bar of one of Martin's songs under his breath. He'd have to see him play again soon, his mastery of the saxophone was impressive. He'd seen Martin manipulate wires and punch people out with the same skilful hands. Everyone needed a hobby, especially IMF agents.

He had his daily walks, his swimming, his photography. But it was a rare day indeed that he didn't think about work.

To be the director of IMF was to represent the company itself. To IMF's employees, he _was_ the company.

His wife, Barbara, understood. They had met at work after all. She was still a part-time typist and translator and occasionally a telephone contact for teams out in the field. Their children didn't understand at all.

He answered the phone and accepted a call from Asia, engaging in an apparently casual conversation. Yes, of course he'd accept a delivery tomorrow afternoon, he was free after four. That mission was clearly close to completion.

He informed Cynthia so that the relevant departments could be told. He trusted his secretary implicitly, he was lucky. A secretary who'd worked on the floor below had collected several bushels of secret documents last month and had almost successfully sold them to a very shady bidder until a team had apprehended her.

He sighed and lit another cigarette, leaving a smoldering butt in the ashtray. Stevens was still shaken by that secretary incident, some problems had already been reported. They would have to be dealt with and fast.

Now though, it was time to record some pre-mission briefings. He let Cynthia know not to interrupt him for an hour. His office could be rendered soundproof when the occasion required it, as it did now. He pressed a hidden button and looked for the right clutch of files.

He paused before beginning. He knew so well what it was like to be on the other side of this arrangement. He had lost count of the number of times he had listened to mission briefings in abandoned cinemas, the back rooms of clothing stores, pleasure cruisers. The nooks and crannies were endless and inventive, IMF's couriers peppered throughout the country and beyond, ensuring that the right team leader heard the right message, and able to effortlessly blend into a crowd no matter the situation.

He remembered hearing about Michael's death, Celia's amputation, David's defection, all from a taped voice, a message that would soon be burned, smoked, and ceased to exist.

He read out and recorded every tape secreted for team leaders; it ensured that he knew all aspects of each mission and what information the team had to work with. He had the final word on resources allowed for each mission, he had to believe that each allotment was adequate. He had to believe in the agents. He didn't see some of the team leaders for months. IMF work was uncertain and always on a knife-edge. Sometimes the last thing he said to them before their lives were cut short was a prerecorded _good luck._

Good people died in the field and in the office and sometimes they couldn't be publicly mourned for weeks, because the mission always had to come first. Sometimes they couldn't be publicly mourned at all.

Their jobs consisted of perfectly ordinary office work, that was all the outside world was allowed to see. This often meant that they had to jet off to faraway places, the only glamorous or exciting aspect of their jobs as far as the world was concerned. Of course, exciting also meant frequent risk and life-threatening situations. It was a life of constant complex lies. It was not for everyone. He could not imagine doing, being, anything else.

He could still remember seeing Harry fall, his face slack with shock and pain. He could remember Shelley's tears and the sting of her slap. He could remember so many details that nobody else would ever know, just as the men before him had.

He blew smoke into the silence. Like the men before him, he would bear the weight of the company until his mind softened and details began slipping. That was one of Cynthia's roles – to ensure he was still able to complete his everyday duties. There were others in the company who would also keep an eye on his work performance and accept Cynthia's reports. They were people he trusted, people that he knew wouldn't throw him over to gain his office. He had staunched Celia's bleeding arm wound, not enough to save the limb but enough to save her life. He had spent a couple of tours overseas in the same company as Sebastian and had learned Dutch with Marguerite.

He massaged the bridge of his nose and tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth. He was due to meet Barbara for lunch – he'd owed her a lunch date for some time now and she had been good enough to wait before collecting. Then he would settle into an afternoon of meetings, Alexander Waverly was coming across town for a weekly cagey comparing of notes. By the end of the day, he might know how many teams had succeeded, and how many agents would be safely returning home.

He pressed a button on his phone to activate the hidden tape recorder. Cynthia would collect the tapes once he was finished and would distribute them to the relevant couriers. He opened an innocuous beige folder, summoning up the required confident and implacable tone, and began once more.

"Good morning, Mr Phelps..."

 _-the end_


End file.
